


The Truth Painted Upon his Back

by madscientist1313



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Rough Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22982410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madscientist1313/pseuds/madscientist1313
Summary: Restless after a particularly rough mission, you lie in bed late at night and watch him sleep, letting your mind wander.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 60





	The Truth Painted Upon his Back

Just a hint of moonlight seeps in between the drawn curtains. No more than a tiny slice of brightness cuts around the slightly ajar bedroom door. But it’s enough. Enough for your eyes to make out the gentle slope of his naked shoulder – the flesh one, the unmarred one – and the pale plane of his brawny back as he sleeps beside you, curled away from you, hiding himself from you, even now in the tender dead of night.

You tuck one hand beneath your head as you roll towards him, reaching the other out – slowly, cautiously – to trail long, lean fingers down his back. To delicately trace along the jut of his shoulder blade. To tap a light rhythm down each of his ribs. To press lightly into the now-pristine flesh, now-healed wounds that once marred this strong and heaving back… the wounds that still gape and bleed in your dreams, still blemish your wide-open heart.

A bullet just to the right of his spine, the hole small but prominent, a tear you watched heal night by night, staring at his back just as you are now. The small crescent-shaped incision right above his hip, pitted and jagged for a week or more – long by his super-healing standards – thanks to a swiftly passing infection received from the filthy knife Romanov used to dig out the hot shrapnel.

Another knife. Another. A one inch blade, thin and smooth, thrust between his ribs. So quick and slick that he hadn’t even noticed until long after the assailant was taken down. A much larger blade, rough and jagged, made for hunting, for tearing flesh from bone, dodged repeatedly, deftly avoided until your own shout of pain distracted him, compromised him.

That mission left you with a dislocated shoulder. He had received a pierced and shorn kidney, another surgery, a week lingering in medical. A near-death experience he shrugged off like all the others before.

You had learned then to keep your mouth shut when on a mission together, to never show pain nor fear nor doubt lest he be forced to feel the same.

You press the tip of your index finger lightly to that spot, where you saw the thick, lethal knife slice into him that day. You run it down the length of the scar that can only be seen by your own highly trained eyes. Only you can make out the truth painted upon his back. Only you can see the history of his defeats. Of his triumphs as well.

You know this land. You can navigate the topography of his body with your eyes closed tight, using nothing more than your one pointed finger.

“Stop that,” he mutters thickly into his pillow, deep, sleep-filled words reverberating through the still and silent night. His body shifts, rolling further onto his belly as he curls around the pillow, mumbling into it nothing more than, “Tickles.”

A small smile pulls at the corner of your mouth, and you scoot closer, leisurely snaking your hand around to his front, to the center of his chest where the slow and steady _thump-thump_ of his heart beats into your open palm. You press yourself into his back, feeling the deep, sturdy swells of his breaths continually push his expanding ribs into your bare breasts.

He unfurls his right arm from the tight cocoon of his own body, reaching around your cradling arm so he can take hold of your hand. Even lost in the twilight of near slumber, he’s able to sweep his rough and calloused fingers across your skin – his thumb tracing idle circles atop the back of your hand – with the same loving tenderness as if he were wide awake and staring helplessly into your eyes. His large warm hand presses down on yours, pinning it to his chest as he turns ever so slightly in your embrace, pulling his face from the soft downy pillow just enough to be able to clearly dictate, “You should be asleep.”

You let out a long, wistful breath, peeking over his head at the glowing clock on the bedside table. Four AM. Too late. Too early. Steve scheduled the debrief for eight, just four short hours from now. You duck your head, pressing your nose between his shoulder blades, into his vertebrae. “Can’t,” your murmur softly into his skin.

He lets out a low moan and wrestles himself from your embrace, loosing your hand and rolling in one quick, deft motion to face you. For a long moment, no words are spoken. He simply stares at you, here in the darkest hour of the night. His quiet gray eyes roam your face, taking in every detail. Those so familiar to him that he could paint you in his dreams – the soft slant of your nose, the gentle curve of your chin, the delicate curl to your lashes. And those new and foreign and made to pass – the dark, heavy bags beneath your eyes; the deep blue and purple hues, fading slightly out to green, still spreading along your cheek; the small, carefully stitched gash just beneath your hairline.

He frowns, the corners of his lips plummeting downward as he reaches out – metal fingers gleaming in the moonlight – and lays a cooling, tender touch against your face. The cold metal of his palm brings a wave of relief to your deeply bruised cheek and you let out a small, relieved gasp, the sudden sound of which causes his fingertip to still its gentle, floating trace of the gash on your forehead.

“You said it didn’t hurt,” he murmurs softly, breath hot between you.

“I lied,” you reply, small, crooked grin tugging at your lips.

He makes a move to pull away, but you’re quick to grab his wrist, forcing the comforting chill to remain plastered to your face. He blinks, no need to squint. He can see you clear as day, even here in the dark, dark room that you two so often share. Technically yours. Always his. He blinks and sighs and repeats, tone low and solemn, “You should sleep.”

You smile at him wider, fulling realizing that he can easily see it stop at your lips, never rising to your eyes. He can always see. He can always tell.

“I like what I see with my eyes _open_ ,” you tell him, a cheeky lilt to your voice. A teasing lightness forced into the hollow space between you.

“Baby,” he mutters then, long and drawn out, dreamy and ethereal. It’s your name, the one that only _he_ can call you. It’s a taunting chide when you shut him out, lie or feign or shrug off the truth. It’s an adamant denial that he needs such things from you – shielding, protection, coddling. It’s encouragement – no, a _plea_ – for you to speak the truth, to let him in, to share your pain so he might shoulder it for you.

“I’m fine,” you say then, a clipped response to all that he asks of you.

But whether you tell him or not, he knows the truth. He may not have been with you this time – Steve making sure that you two are never partnered together on missions, not after you compromised him so nearly a year ago – but still, he knows. He heard through the coms… heard you call out for backup, heard Sam shouting your name, heard a tight gasp and sputter just before the com device was knocked from your ear and crushed, thick static sizzling out to nothing.

He knows because they told him – Sam and Natasha, the only two who had answered your call for backup in time. The two who dragged your bloodied, sorry ass back to the quinjet, dumping you into his waiting arms. They told him then, “Our recon only picked up two guys, still no clue where the other two came from. They got the drop on her, but… look, Barnes… she’s alright, man. Just got her bell rung a little. She’s alright.” _She’s alright. She’s alright. She’s alright_. The words still echo in his ears as he stares longingly at you now.

He knows because he can see it written all over your face, in that same hollow look he’s seen reflected back at him in the mirror time and time again.

“I’m not saying you have to talk about it,” he tells you, gradually letting his metal hand fall from your face, down to your neck, to your shoulder where it begins a light, tender stroke along your bare skin. “Just don’t lie to me.”

But what is a lie anyway? Between the two of you… what constitutes a lie?

Is it _truth_ when he escapes the warmth of your bed – of _you_ – without a word, without any explanation in the middle of the night following a bad dream or a rough memory or a moment of doubt? Is it _honest_ when he pulls away from your touch, trembling with trepidation because he can’t let himself believe that your comfort is warranted… or deserved? Is it _real_ when he hides all that he is outside of these walls – outside of your arms – from you at every turn? Sitting stern and stoic and silent in debriefs and meetings when you’re present, refusing to speak more than two words to you when he’s strapped into his tactical gear.

You asked him once – when the two of you were just becoming _us_ , when you were first let into the world of this _other_ man… of _James_ – you asked him then who he was when he wasn’t with you. “Who’s _Bucky Barnes_?” you’d teasingly quipped.

“Nobody,” he’d replied, the single word all he was willing to bestow. Perhaps all he was able to.

So is it a lie, then, if it’s all you can bear to give?

“The mission went sideways,” you mutter with a sigh and a shrug. “It happens.” His fingers flex and tighten on your upper arm, and you lock onto his eyes. “We got the intel we needed. And we all got out in one piece. That’s what matters,” you offer with a raised brow and a definitive nod.

He gives a stiff nod of his own in return. A long, harsh breath issues out from his nostrils as he holds tightly to your moonlit gaze. “Okay,” he says simply, shifting his body beneath the thin top sheet. He scoots closer to you, wraps himself around you, both arms winding round your center and pulling you to him, holding you tight as you respond in kind, coiling yourself around his strong, warm body. “You need to sleep,” he mutters softly into your hair, laying his chin atop your head, silently directing you to curl further into him, to rest your obviously weary head on his chest, curved perfectly into the crook of his neck.

Your hands splay out on his naked back, palms rising and falling in time with his heavy breaths. Your fingers idly trace along his flesh, scraping in gentle lines and curves. A small blade, barely noticeable, quick to heal. A jagged one, digging deep enough to gut, to kill a lesser man. You tap listlessly, fingertips pitter-pattering down his spine, then off to the side… hitting a bullet hole here, another there. Tracing along the telltale topography of a soldier who’s been at war for longer than most men have been alive. Feeling your way along the broad, muscled map you memorized long ago. The one you hope will someday lead you both home, each into the wide open arms of the other.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into reader-centric fiction... and drabbles in general, truth be told. So I'd love any feedback you'd be willing to offer. Thanks for reading!


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